


nothing will howl back

by laratoncita



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Gangs, Gen, Grooming, Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inappropriate Behavior, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: One day you'll be just like me, Spooky.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	nothing will howl back

**Author's Note:**

> re: the rating & warnings / tags: by grooming i mean child grooming, i.e. behavior closely linked to sexual abuse. there is nothing explicit in this story, but this is very much behavior that is present, and i want to add this disclaimer for everyone's safety. please keep this in mind when reading! this is not like. a feel-good story and i wanna make that clear for everyone.
> 
> title from c. t. salazar's “Noah’s Nameless Wife Takes Inventory”

_I’m a man, I’m a man, I’m a man. No one could ever hurt me.  
(Warsan Shire, “Crude Conversations with Boys Who Fake Laughter Often”)_

The first real conversation between them takes place the week after Ray’s sentencing.

Oscar answers the door with a fussy Cesar in his arms, thirteen and not anywhere near equipped to deal with a three year old. The woman in the doorway is in heels, blue from head to toe. Her hair is lighter than her eyebrows, and she looks intrigued by the sight that Oscar and Cesar make.

She says, “Hola chulo. Where’s your mom?”

Oscar tries not to let his emotions show on his face. Their mother’s not home, rarely is. When she’s around it’s to sleep off the shit she uses; sometimes nights will pass and she won’t come home, leaves Oscar alone to keep himself and Cesar clean and fed, which is harder than it looks. School days he drops Cesar off with one of the neighbors, Mrs. Guzmán, whose kids are all older than Oscar. Her youngest, Alejo, stays inviting Oscar to kick it, but he doesn’t have the time for it, especially now that Ray’s gone.

He says, knowing that the lie is obvious, “She’s at work.”

“Mhm,” she says. There are two men in a black SVU behind her, the windows tinted dark enough that Oscar’s sure they must get pulled over for it. She smiles, and a chill runs up his spine. He adjusts Cesar in his arms, holds him closer like that could protect either of them. Oscar knows better. She says, “Well, what time’s she out, honey?”

“Eight,” Oscar says, because it’s just after four, and he wants this woman gone.

She knows this is a lie, too. She says, “So late. Just you and your little brother here, all by yourselves.” She tilts her head, hair cascading over her shoulder. Her gaze seems all-knowing, nothing friendly about the painted-on smile she sports. “What’s your name?”

He shifts, uneasy. “Oscar.”

“Oscar,” she says, and he tries to stay as impassive as possible. Doesn’t like the way his name sounds coming from her. “Pues…es un placer. My name is Stacy.” Her expression is meant to be inviting, open and friendly in theory. Oscar’s smart, though, he always has been. He knows better than to trust anyone, let alone this woman apparently here to see his mother. Not when it’s clear there’s more than meets the eye. She continues, “Tell your mom I’ll be back to see her,” and soon her SVU is driving off, the block unnaturally quiet as Oscar watches her go, Cesar’s cheek pressed to his.

* * *

She’s back as promised, not a week later. This time his mother’s home, clearly in withdrawal, wearing an old _vata_ and with her hair in a messy braid that Oscar did for her while she coughed over the toilet. That was earlier; she’s nursing a cup of _manzanilla_ at the kitchen table now, looks worse for wear. That’s her usual look, though, so Oscar’s not too worried. She’s conscious, wiggles her fingers at Cesar when he settles at her feet, one arm wrapped around her calf like he wants to make sure she stays put. When someone knocks on the door she raises an eyebrow at Oscar.

They look alike when she does that. He doesn’t like it.

“Who is it?” she asks, as if Oscar’s the man of the house. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s been it far longer than just a few weeks, since Ray was hauled off. He goes to open the door and finds the same woman as before. Stacy, she said. All black today, the heat from the afternoon fading into the night already, which maybe explains the slacks. He swallows.

Before he can speak she says, “Oscar! So nice to see you, baby. Mom home today?” and steps into the house, moves Oscar aside easily, even if he’s at least the same height as her already. He thinks he’ll be taller than Ray, maybe, even if his father is—was? He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to talk about him anymore, not that he wants to—built far more solidly than Oscar feels, gangly from growth spurts and still waiting on a couple more.

His mother says, “Doña,” voice going high with surprise as she enters their shabby dining room, and is quickly hushed.

“Querida,” Stacy says, “how are you?” Her voice is sickly sweet. “No te he visto.”

“Cuchillos,” his mother says, the softness of her tone betrayed by her words. _Cuchillos_. Not Stacy. Not just some woman in a pantsuit. “Please. Sit down.” She starts to stand and Cuchillos puts a single well-manicured hand up, her nails a nude, glossy color, filed to a point.

“Don’t worry, mija,” she says, “I won’t be long. I wanted you to know that you’re safe.”

His mother swallows. Stares, her mouth trembling the slightest bit. Oscar feels frozen; hasn’t seen his mother like this before, even when Ray was around. They would argue, stalk through the house and let ice seep from their veins into the air, unhappy with the realities of life in Freeridge, of the Santos, of his mother’s highs and lows. But it had never turned into this, his mother still like a statue, prey to something that might lash out the second she moved.

Oscar, at thirteen, knows what it feels like to be angry. But this fear feels new.

“Ray messed up,” Cuchillos says, saccharine front obvious to every Diaz in the room, “but he’s paying the price. I’m not going to take that out on you.” She waves at Cesar, who puts his other arm around their mother’s leg and hides his face behind it afterwards. “Especially not your boys.” She turns to smile at Oscar. He has to fight every instinct to take a step backwards, watches his mother’s expression harden for a split-second at the threat.

He thinks, maybe, that she’ll say something in defense of herself, or of Ray’s fuck up, or maybe even Oscar and Cesar. But when she speaks it’s carefully void of emotion: “Thank you, Doña.”

Cuchillos smiles again. Says, “Of course, mija. I’ll be on my way now.” She turns, gives Oscar a considering look that makes him want to shudder. “Chulo, won’t you walk me to my car? Freeridge isn’t any safer than it was when I left.”

His mother says, “Doña,” but she puts a hand up again, silencing her.

“Don’t worry,” she says, even as she curls her hand over Oscar’s elbow and leads him to the door, “I’ll give him right back. In one piece, even.”

Outside, it’s barely sixty degrees and windy. Oscar can’t help but shiver this time.

Cuchillos tuts, puts her arm around him, either unnoticing of how it makes him go stiff or uncaring. “Y tú, Oscar? How are you?”

“Fine,” he says, because what other answer can he offer, really? It’s February already, Ray not yet a memory in their home, and things are neither better or worse.

“Hm,” she says, and turns to look at him a few feet from her car, a man in the driver’s seat and the empty passenger awaiting her. She looks calculating, too serious—like already she thinks she knows him better than himself. “That doesn’t sound too good. Are you sure?”

He tries not to look directly at her. Settles his gaze somewhere over her ear, knows she’s cataloguing his every expression, his stomach heavy with the feeling of being watched. He says, “Yes, Doña,” and she laughs.

She reaches out to touch his face. Grips his chin, deceivingly gentle. “Call me Stacy, baby,” she says, smile like a threat, “o mejor, _Cuchillos_.”

* * *

A year later, early in the summer, Alejo joins the Santos. It’s the sort of thing that’s an inevitability in Freeridge.

Oscar’s still stinging from having to turn down Pasadena, all that work down the drain. It’s not just that he busted his ass in school—it’s that he did it while his dad was hustling on the streets, his mother barely present, and Cesar needing more of him every day. The principal writes a letter for him, he gets accepted, and then, poof. Reality finally sets in. Maybe it’s a belated realization; really, all of his dreams were gone in one fell swoop months before, as soon as Ray was sentenced to over a decade in the pen.

Good riddance. He might have thought it, might almost want to take it back, but he won’t. Because he’s still in Freeridge, and the Santos haven’t gone away.

They don’t usually go after middle school kids, but his father is—was—a Santo. His grandfather, dead before Oscar could even meet him, was, too. Oscar’s cousins, a little younger than him, run with them lately, and Oscar thinks this summer might trap him there, too. No one can escape it, even if they want to.

But Oscar wants to. He wants it worse than anything.

Ray getting sentenced last winter wasn’t the first time he’d gotten locked up; it was just the biggest charge thus far. He has to blink away tears, eyes stinging, when he remembers being smaller, a real child, unknowing of the realities of life in Freeridge. When Ray used to sit him in his lap and put his hands on the steering wheel, the same Impala that sits in the crowded garage. Oscar turns the engine on and off every week without fail, imagines one day learning how to drive in it even if there’s no one around to teach him.

It’s always been him picking up slack at home. Doesn’t matter that he won’t be fifteen for another five months, or that he’s barely graduated middle school. He went to the ceremony because his tía made him, smiled big for a photo with Cesar in his arms. At the end of the night, after he convinced his tía to take him and Cesar home, he found his mother curled up in sleep and had to check to make sure she was breathing.

So when Alejo tells him to come through, a party at one of the older guys’ places, he thinks about it. Tries to sit down and map it all out, what would happen if he says no and what will happen if he says yes. He can try to avoid every whisper of the Santos but it’s impossible. They call him _Little Diaz_ at the corner store; viejitas on the block, Mrs. Guzmán included, say he looks just like Ray. He tries to lie to himself: what’s one party?

One party is nothing; the same can be said of two. But then there’s free mota and a few girls batting their eyelashes at Oscar, and he doesn’t know any better. That’s what he tells himself after the third and fourth party, mouth cottony and some older girl assuring she’ll turn him into a man, _come with me_. He doesn’t feel like himself afterwards, tries to sleep it off and the feeling won’t go away. June passes in a blur, same as his plans on getting out of Freeridge alive all those months ago, and then it’s July and he’s icing bruises he barely remembers agreeing he deserved. It was easier to say yes. Maybe one day Oscar will grow strong enough to say no.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter. His blood’s belonged to the Santos since he was born. He was going to pledge himself to this cross either way.

In August, after his ribs have healed, no longer splotchy yellow with faded bruises, Cuchillos comes to see him again. He’s out front, spraying Cesar with the hose like the kid’s been begging him to do all day, the heat unbearable inside the house and barely tolerable outside. He’s starting kindergarten this year, is terribly excited to show off his rudimentary reading skills. Oscar’s already got him working on writing, plus he knows the alphabet, a fact that makes him feel absurdly proud.

It’s a different car this time, ice cream paintjob, classy as hell. A man climbs out of the backseat to open the passenger side door, and then Cuchillos is there, looking out of place in this neighborhood in her expensive clothes and jewel-heavy fingers.

Oscar says, “Wait inside for me, C,” and fixes the kid with a sharp look when he starts to whine. “You gotta eat soon,” he tells him, “go change,” and waits for Cesar to head inside before turning to Cuchillos, who watches with amusement, beckoning him close afterwards. She has the same friendly veneer as always, but when she curls her fingers over his shoulder he feels the sharp prick of her fingernails through his t-shirt.

“Ay, chulo,” she says, a starving look in her eye, “you’ve grown up so much since I last saw you. Como estás?”

“Bien, Doña,” he says, tries not to squirm. Her grip on him is propriety, and she holds him too close, makes him hunch down a little so she can get a good look at him. Alejo says she deals with the older guys, usually Cucuy, specifically, the tattoos along his jaw looking like a caricatured smile at first glance. _He_ deals with the realities of the streets, the grittiness, the nasty parts; said Cuchillos is on the business side of things, when he realized Oscar knew who she was. He can’t imagine why she’s here to see him. Wonders, maybe, if she’s looking for his mom, and a lance of cold fear stings down his spine at the thought. If she owes her money—

“Sh, papacito,” she says, patting his face with her free hand while Oscar tries not to react, “why so worried? No one’s in trouble. I hear you work for me, now.”

Cucuy hadn’t said as much when Oscar came around. Said he worked for _him_ , told him to go tagging like all the newbies do. Alejo did the same, but he’s a little older, has his license, so they have him do drops too, keep him watching the streets more steadily. Oscar’s taller now but still a child. Still some _chiquillo_ , Cucuy said. He had to earn his stripes, who the fuck cares about the Diaz anymore?

Evidently one person still does, if Cuchillos being here means anything, hands on him like she owns him.

She asks, “How’s your mom doing?”

“Good.”

Her smile is knowing. Oscar’s lies never seem to stick with her. “And your brother? You still watching him?” Like she didn’t pull up on the two of them just now. Like she doesn’t have eyes everywhere.

Cesar’s probably already dressed and waiting for him inside. Oscar wants her to leave. He knows better than to admit it, though.

He says, “Yes,” and her expression doesn’t change.

“He needs to eat soon, huh? I heard you.”

“Yeah.” He shifts, uncomfortable. She’s still so close to him, her perfume heavy and floral. He tries not to look at her directly.

“Let’s not leave him waiting,” she says, and his stomach sinks as he leads her inside.

* * *

Stacy. Doña. Cuchillos. Oscar knows all these names for her. She has her own set for him: chulo, baby, _papacito_. He learns not to flinch at them. His mother coos at Cesar sometimes and he has to work not to react.

He works his way up the ranks surely, turns sixteen and has a gun put in his hand.

“Head down to Fourth Street,” Cucuy says, “Joker will fill you in. Don’t come back unless it’s handled,” and just like that, Oscar has a new body count. He’s not even surprised when Cuchillos shows up the morning after.

There’s no real pattern to it. She always acts like it’s a social call, eyes tracking Oscar’s every move. Their meetings are brief but haunting, her voice following him into his dreams, sometimes, leaving him lost with no real way of escape. Something about it feels slimy; he can’t—or maybe won’t—put a name to it. Just knows it means he’s trapped.

“Hola, chulo,” she says when she steps out of her car, paid muscle driving her like always. She slides her sunglasses off to get a better look at him, standing awkwardly on the front porch. He feels himself start to sweat through his white t-shirt, feels embarrassed about it for a split-second. She’s in heels like she is every time he sees her, hair pulled into a severe bun. It looks like she’s gotten eyelash extensions since the last he saw her, and when she smiles a thrill of fear runs through him despite himself. “How are you?”

She always asks. As if Oscar will ever say anything other than good, since she came by to see his mom and didn’t like the answer he gave her. She gives him a onceover she doesn’t try to hide, and he bites his tongue so hard he tastes iron.

“I’m good,” he says, and she smiles widely.

“I hear you’re doing work for Cuco,” she says. She never calls him _Cucuy_. Lately, the guys have taken to calling Oscar _Spooky_. That he’s serious all the time, unshaken where others—older Santos, ones who are used to life—still get a little spooked. It’s not a name he carries proudly but he’ll take it. Better than Little Diaz, he figures. Better to keep erasing his father, gone three years now and hopefully never coming back.

“Sí, Señora,” he says, and she tuts.

“What did I tell you?” she says, puts her arm around his waist. “Ven, papacito. Let’s chat, shall we?” and he lets her guide him to the backseat of her car, the two of them driven by one of the bodyguards she always has within arm’s reach.

The place they pull up to is _elite_ , a nicer joint than Oscar had ever imagined himself in, and he feels horribly underdressed, in old jeans and a pair of Adidas that just barely fit him. Cuchillos, despite what he knows about her, doesn’t look out of place at all. It doesn’t matter that she has a body count, too, that they call her Cuchillos out in Freeridge and not _Ms. Jaramillo_ the way the maître d' did when they walked in. She looks like someone born to this, not some _hyna_ who clawed her way out of South Central with a knife between her teeth.

They’re seated in the corner, no menus provided, and she tells him, “Don’t worry, baby, I know what’s good here.” She smiles at him. Always smiling, really. Nothing about it ever comforts him.

He thinks of his mother, who was inside with Cesar when he left. He’d been on the stoop smoking a cigarette he’d stolen out of the pack she’d left on the table. Didn’t even duck inside to say goodbye, just followed after Cuchillos like he always did. He’s a little disgusted with himself. Feels worse to realize that it’s probably safer that way. He remembers how she reacted, all those years ago, when Cuchillos stopped by to tell them Ray’s debts weren’t theirs. She’s not a good mother, Oscar thinks, but he’s not so terrible a son to not at least try to protect her from the things she fears.

Oscar doesn’t think he’s going to live long. It just has to be enough to get Cesar out of Freeridge, he tells himself. Maybe get _him_ to a charter school, even college. Maybe neither Oscar or their mother will be around to see it, but there’s no way he’s going to let Cesar get caught up in the same life that Oscar’s living, the one that threw their father in jail and killed their grandfather before either of them were ever born. He’s not going to let Cuchillos get her hands on him.

He knows three important things about her, after all: Stacy Jaramillo has eyes everywhere. She likes to set them on Oscar especially. Saying no to her will never really be an option.

She says, “Be honest. Cómo te sientes?”

He says, “Okay,” because there isn’t much else to say. Yesterday he killed someone. He did his job. Today, he’s in a fancy restaurant trying to make himself as small as possible, Cuchillos sitting too near to him to be comfortable. This is just his life now. Maybe if he keeps saying it he’ll believe himself.

“Cuco says you’ve done good with us, so far.” He wonders if she really thinks of it as _us_. The Santos are family, they say. They take care of their own. His father is in a cell up in Lancaster, and as far as Oscar knows, no one’s gone to see him once.

He says, “Thank you, Doña,” and it makes her smile.

“Is Cuco doing alright?” Her expression is calculating. Always calculating. Like she’s already figured out how to win at the game and is waiting to see which way he might slip up.

“Yeah,” he says. It’s always the safe answer. Doesn’t matter if Cuchillos sees through him every time.

“You’re a good one, aren’t you?” she says. She almost sounds amused. Only then she leans in close, puts one hand high, high up on his thigh, and he goes very still. “You make me very proud, Spooky,” she says, her voice reedy in his ear. "One day you'll be just like me."

He folds his hands together carefully, counts to ten to keep from reacting. Hopes to God he’s killed before it comes true. Offers Cuchillos a nod like she’s right either way.


End file.
